


Heat It Up, Melt It Down

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bank Robbery, Concussions, Friendship, Gen, Head Injury, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Neal and Peter are caught up in a bank heist gone wrong. It emerges that one of the hostages is a cop; Neal says it’s him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat It Up, Melt It Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written a while back (2011?) for a prompt (as the summary) on whitecollarhc. I think this is the last of the fics from my deleted LJ to be archived. This story does contain some, not particularly graphic, violence, so please proceed with caution.

 

 

 

The cool air inside the bank was a welcome reprieve from the stifling August humidity that had settled over New York like an unshakable film. Their footsteps echoed crisply on the marble floor as they made their way through the entrance lobby to the grand central rotunda.

“I’m just saying, if you _had_ to – “

Peter sighed and quickened his pace to keep in step with Neal, inwardly cursing the energy his youth afforded him in the heat. “Okay, yes, if I _had_ to grow my moustache back, handlebar would be the way to go.”

Neal shot him a beaming smile over the top of the heavy box of files he was carrying. Peter rolled his eyes, giving him a slight shove in the direction of the information desk. “Wind up merchant.”

Peter flashed his badge at the female employee and asked for John Buchanan, the bank manager. Her heels clicked rhythmically as she disappeared towards a back office. Their visit was a formality really. A few months earlier a whistleblower had tipped them off about possible demand draft fraud within the branch. Neal had gone in undercover but quickly realised that the claims were unsubstantiated. Unlike many of their cases, this one had soon revealed itself to be a potent mix of bad accounting, someone with an axe to grind and garden-variety paranoia. There was just a final statement to be taken and some confiscated financial records to be given back; the return of the FBI break up bag, as it were.

After a moment, the woman returned. “I’m very sorry but Mister Buchanan has already left for his meeting up-town. Can I take those for you instead?” she asked, gesturing to the box in Neal’s arms with a shy smile.

Neal affected an expression of mock horror. “Now what kind of law enforcement official would I be if I let you haul around a heavy box of evidence?” he said, aiming a pointed look at Peter.  “Would you just mind showing me where to leave it for him?” Neal glanced at Peter, who nodded his assent and waved him off with a look that said: _just don’t line your pockets on your way out_.

As they walked away, Neal said something to the woman in a hushed tone and Peter caught the blush in her cheeks as she laughed and turned her face away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Peter smiled as he watched their interaction; it was easy on days like this, when they had the motions of a case to go through and Neal wore this identity as comfortably as any other, to forget how fragile their partnership had been since the warehouse exploded and the weight of the treasure settled down around them. Sometimes, as painful as it was, Peter had to remind himself that this is exactly what Neal did; he might let you shuffle the cards, but he’ll still cut the deck any way he wants. 

Peter turned to lean against the smooth marble counter while he waited. The bank was quiet, which was not particularly surprising for a Wednesday afternoon: an elderly couple talked as they stood in line at cashier’s desk; a woman sat checking her phone by the south entrance where a security guard paced; a man filled out paperwork with a bank employee at the far end of the room. Peter’s phone started to ring, but as he reached into his jacket to answer it, he clipped a stack of mortgage advice leaflets with his elbow, knocking them from the counter. Seeing Diana’s name flashing on the screen, Peter answered the call just as the paper started to flutter down at his feet. Silently cursing, he stooped to clear up the mess, holding the phone against his shoulder with his chin. “Yeah, Diana?”

_“Boss – ”_

It was all he heard because in the next moment there was an explosion - a gunshot - that reverberated around the room like thunder in the sky. There was a second rattle of gunfire, then a chorus of shouts.

“Get down on the ground!”

“Everyone get down on the fucking floor!”

“I said now, bitch! We’re not fucking around!”

Someone screamed and instinctively Peter reached for his holster, but one look at the group of men brandishing the guns and he knew he didn't stand a chance. He made the decision to drop to the floor before his fingers could even brush over the cool metal handle. As he fell to his hands and knees, he saw the security guard reach for his weapon; Peter wanted to shout out to him, tell him not to, but he would have been too late. There were two discordant cracks and the guard crumpled to the ground soundlessly, a bullet in his head. For half a second there was a stunned silence, then another tortuous scream that echoed tirelessly along the surfaces of the building.

In the chaos, Peter closed his eyes and focused.

_Slide your cell phone away before they see you - leave it on._

_Pull your shirt over your badge._

_Keep your head down._

_Don’t make eye contact._

_Observe._

Neal, he thought. _Neal._

Peter watched as the gunmen spread out to secure the building, corralling the employees who hadn't been behind the bullet proof glass into the central area. There seemed to be four of them, all dressed in black with ski masks covering their faces. Doors were barricaded shut, blinds drawn, and then all noise instantly stopped, save for the stifled breathing of those sat on the floor and the clink of a gun being tapped nervously against a thigh.

Suddenly, there was movement in the heavy silence and Peter turned to see the fifth gunman emerge from a doorway, one hand grasped tightly in the pale fabric of a shirt. Peter’s eyes traveled upwards to see the other hand holding a gun to Neal’s head.

 

*

 

Neal’s eyes were bright and Peter could see the fear in them as he was dragged further into the room, past the dead man lying in a pool of his own blood. The gunman pushed Neal forward, and he stumbled into Peter before he dropped to the floor. When the gunman moved away Peter looked at Neal and whispered sharply, “Where’s the girl?”

“Helped her climb into an air duct when we heard gunshots.”  Neal was breathless and Peter knew his heart must have been racing like his own was.

“And you?”

“I was too slow,” Neal said, but somehow Peter didn’t believe him.

They both returned their focus to the gunmen and it was only then that Peter noticed they had bags of equipment.

“I guess they’re not here for the petty cash,” he heard Neal whisper beside him.

“You think they’re going for the safety deposit boxes?”

Neal shook his head and started to reply, but fell silent as one of the gunmen grabbed a male bank employee, pulling him up to his feet.

“Who has the code to the vault?” The employee was trembling too hard to form a coherent reply so the gunman put the gun against his throat. “Well?”

“The m - ma - manager.”

The gunman laughed cruelly. “And which one of you is the m - ma - manager?”

The employee seemed to crumble in on himself. “He’s not here.”  The gunman tightened his hold on the employee’s collar, pulling his neck up at an awkward angle. 

“Forget him, Ronnie," one of the other gunmen urged. "We’ve already wasted too much time. Let’s just hit the vault and get the money.” There was a note of panic in his voice and Peter suddenly wondered if he'd expected this to end in murder. The guard’s body was still lying untouched near the middle of the room, his limbs folded under him awkwardly from the way he fell. Blood covered the floor behind him in a fine mist, as though an aerosol can had exploded. Peter tried to avoid looking at it. 

For whatever reason, the words seemed to get through and Ronnie released his hold on the employee, pushing him away as he gestured for his men to get to work. As some of the men broke into the cashier’s area, others threw the equipment bags onto a desk and began laying out drills and borescopes. The collection of tools seemed insubstantial even to Peter, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Neal was watching them intently. It was in that moment that the faint wail of police sirens became audible, and Peter let out a silent prayer of thanks to Diana as they continued to grow louder and louder.

“ _Fuck_.” Ronnie turned to one of his men. “Did someone press a panic button?”

“No one could have done it, man. There was no time.”

“Cell phones?”

“Nah, we’ve been watching them, there’s no way.”

“Let’s just take some cash and get out of here, Ronnie,” another of the gunmen pleaded, his voice whiny and agitated. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

“No!” Ronnie turned and kicked a chair across the room, sending it clattering into the wall. His shoulders were heaving as he breathed hard, body electrified with a violent energy. Then came the command Peter had been dreading: “Search them.”

The stockiest of the men moved towards Neal, ordering him to stand up with a wave of his gun. He began to pat Neal down and Peter counted down the seconds until Neal's FBI credentials were found, heart in his mouth. Neal's anklet had been removed for another case just that morning, but whether that would have been a help or a hinderance, Peter couldn't decide. The gunman reached Neal's jacket pocket, but to Peter's shock he came up empty – no ID, no cell. He quickly moved on to search Peter. Sweat beaded on Peter's back as the man’s hands moved up the outside of his legs and along his waist; the man stopped there, clearly sensing the outline of his holster.

“Boss. This guy’s armed.”

Peter held his hands up as five guns were immediately cocked and trained on him. 

"Take off your jacket." 

Slowly, telegraphing each movement, Peter shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over to Ronnie. His weapon was removed from its holster and one of the gunmen continued patting him down.

“All right, you have my gun now. I’m not a threat to you here,” Peter said, keeping his voice level. His words were completely ignored. Ronnie was searching though his jacket, turning out the pockets one by one. Peter's heart thudded in his ears as he reached the one where he kept his badge, but when Ronnie turned the pocket out it was completely empty. At the same time, the gunman patting him down stepped away with a shake of his head.

Stunned, Peter furtively ran a hand across the pockets of his suit pants, then along his belt, searching for that familiar gold shield. Then realisation hit him sharply, remembering  how Neal had stumbled into him earlier. Peter tried to catch Neal’s eye, hoping that he would somehow be able to convey his gratitude, but Neal’s gaze was fixed firmly on the gunmen.

“Why are you carrying?”

The demand coming from a masked man brandishing a handgun was so absurd that Peter almost wanted to laugh, but Neal’s voice cut in before he could do anything.

“Perhaps because we live in such distrusting times. It’s sad, but true.”

The man who had been searching them turned to Neal. “Shut your fucking mouth.” There was a thump, the hard sound of a fist connecting with a jaw and Neal was on the ground. Someone in the room smothered a trembling gasp.

Peter tamped down on his anger and forced himself to look away from Neal. “Look, the police are outside and any minute now the phones are gonna start ringing. Your best way out of this alive is to stop now and cooperate with them.”

“You sound like a cop,” one of the gunmen sneered, moving into Peter’s personal space. He smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap drugstore deodorant. 

Ronnie nodded, moving forward as well. “Yeah, yeah. You have that look.”

“No, I - ”

Neal laughed derisively from where he was still sat on the floor, as though Peter hadn't spoken at all. “There’s no way this guy's a cop.”

Ronnie turned sharply. “And how the hell do you know that?”

“Because I’m ex-FBI.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. Ronnie rushed towards Neal, crossing the distance between them in two short strides, and, gathering Neal up in his momentum, slammed him against the teller’s counter. Neal grunted as his back impacted solidly with the curved edge. “You called your cop buddies on us?”

Neal rolled his eyes. “No, and in case you’re hard of hearing, I said _ex-_ FBI. They wouldn’t be so keen rush to the rescue if they knew I was in here, if you know what I mean.”

Ronnie smacked Neal hard across the face. Sickened, Peter watched as Neal turned his head and spat blood onto the floor, his white teeth momentarily tarnished with a brilliant red stain. Peter desperately tried to focus on what Neal was saying, trying to anticipate where the hell he was going with this so he could back his play. 

“Your plan has gone south, but I can help you get what you came for,” Neal said, wiping the blood from his lips as casually as he would brush away a piece of lint. "You want in, I'm your guy."

Ronnie laughed harshly, making a gesture to his men as if to say,  _can you believe this jackass?_   But Neal was unperturbed. "Have you ever broken into a vault before?" he asked, looking Ronnie square in the eye. Whatever he saw made him smile contemptuously. "Oh," he said, drawing out the sound, "you don't even know what kind of vault they have down there, do you?" For a second there was silence. Peter could see Neal's words taking effect, the posture of the gunmen changing minutely, uncertainty creeping in. Sirens continued to blare and fade outside, the pressure of the gathering police forces tangible.

“You’re gonna help us?” Ronnie said, shifting his weight between his feet.

“I know what it’s like to be burned by the Feds.” Neal’s voice was low, conspiratorial. “I've done time because of them and I wouldn’t mind making them look stupid.  Let some people go to buy us a little more time and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“And what then, huh? How do you suppose we get out of here with the place swarming with cops?”

Neal gave him an enigmatic look as the shrill ringing of the phones pierced the air. “I can help you with that too.”

 

*

 

It had almost been thirty minutes since two hostages were released and Neal had followed Ronnie and another gunman down to the vault under the bank. Peter had briefly caught Neal’s eye as he'd passed by; he was focused, determinedly in character, shoulders up, body language closed off, his mouth set in a hard line. But there had been something else too, an indefinable flicker in his expression Peter hadn't quite been able to read. 

Three gunmen remained in the central area with Peter and the last of the hostages, pacing uneasily and avoiding the macabre crimson trail on the floor from where they had dragged the guard’s body out of sight. They had been bickering with each other ever since Ronnie left and Peter had been watching closely as the group started to splinter in front of him. He'd got the impression that they had all met one another during a stint in prison and that this job was cooked up somewhere between the exercise yard and the cafeteria line, most likely an escalation from knocking over gas stations and convenience stores. They were in way over their heads and they knew it.  

Another phone started to ring, this time on a desk further back towards a stairwell; they had been ringing almost constantly since the police had arrived, but were steadfastly ignored. Blue and red emergency lights swept across the walls and ceilings of the building rhythmically, but whatever chaos was unfolding outside was muted and distant.

Peter ran a hand through his hair and looked around the room at the other hostages, their faces etched with fears they could not vocalise. There were seven of them left now, four men and three women. The elderly couple Peter had seen in line at the cashier's desk had been released, and those who remained were either bank employees or office workers, presumably out running simple errands in their lunch breaks. One of the women was still fairly close to an entranceway and Peter knew she would be in the direct firing line of the SWAT teams when they moved in, which was becoming increasingly likely as the phones continued to go unanswered. After a moment Peter managed to catch her eye and nodded at the wall to try and get her to move back. She looked at him strangely, but followed his silent direction. Peter feared what would happen if they came in heavy and the men in the vault had time to react; he tried not to think what they might do to Neal then, what they might do anyway.

An indeterminate amount of time passed and Peter’s frustration steadily grew. It was an unfamiliar feeling to be so passive and still, to just sit and wait for things to happen. Neal's play had been fantastically smart, but Peter couldn't understand why he'd been shut out, why Neal hadn't tried to work him into the plan somehow if for no other reason than to have someone watching his back. But as soon as the thought entered his mind the pieces fell into place; sitting still was precisely what Neal had wanted him to do, what he had been silently asking of him as he'd walked from the room. _Just hold everything steady and let me work._ Neal wasn't biding his time until the cops moved in, he was genuinely facilitating an escape. If Neal could get the gunmen the money, get them out of the building, a siege could be avoided altogether and the hostages would be out of harm's way. Neal just needed time. That made Peter Neal's outside man.

The phone rang again.

“You really should answer that,” Peter ventured into the silence.

The gunmen closest to him looked up sharply. “Be quiet.”

“I’m just saying, the cops will come in soon enough if you don’t. We all know what will happen then. Are you really willing to die for this?.”  Peter held his breath as the man stepped towards him, but kept his gaze straight, steady, like he was aiming a gun. "Talk to them. Negotiate. Lie. Stall. What have you got to lose?"

The man paused for an unbearably long time, looking at Peter - grey eyes stark against the black ski mask – but what he was searching for, Peter would never know. After what seemed like an eternity, he walked past the other two gunmen, who were silent, complicit, and picked up the ringing phone.

 

*

 

Negotiations between the gunmen and the agents outside were fraught and sporadic, their conversations winding in such aimless circles that Peter doubted whether the men themselves knew what their own demands were. It would be glaringly obvious to the negotiators that that the thieves were just killing time, but Peter knew they would hold the lines of communication open regardless. He just hoped that they wouldn't move in prematurely and blow everything to hell.

He worried about Neal; he tried not to think about Elizabeth. There had been no movement from downstairs and no contact for what seemed like an eternity. It was as though Neal and the other gunmen had disappeared, vanished into a black hole. It was creating friction among the remaining gunmen, an unease that was slowly creeping in that Ronnie and the others had double-crossed them and already made their escape. Peter was anxious that they may be right, that they had taken what they could from the vault and ran - and where would that leave Neal? He had to believe - hope - that self preservation would mean Ronnie wouldn't want to leave men behind with reason to talk.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught sight of the distinctive black muzzle of a SWAT gun in the shadows of the far stairwell. He had a split second to realise that Neal was out of time before the room exploded in smoke and noise and heat. It was like an invisible seal had been broken, the stillness and silence rushing out of the room in a vacuum as the officers filtered out from all angles, guns raised.

Time began to unfold in a series of juddering moments: black Kevlar emerging out of the blue-grey haze; the shock of the cold water from the fire sprinklers as they triggered; the stark green veins of a man’s hand as he grasped someone’s arm.  The power had been cut, plunging them into near darkness. Peter tried to stay low, waiting for the confused scene to play itself out.  As the smoke began to clear, Peter could see the gunmen had been overpowered, folded onto the floor as though they were made of nothing more than paper. An officer approached him, and Peter started to reach for his badge, but she waved him off before he could remember it was gone. He signed that there were more perps in the building, and more innocents; the officer nodded in acknowledgement and continued forward. The marble floor was dark with water; the smoke was lifting, swirling up into the high ceiling. Minutes later, Jones and Diana came into view, and armed with Jones’ backup gun, Peter and his team descended the stairs to the vault.

 

*

 

There was a commotion somewhere up ahead, voices resonating through the corridors in a flurry of indecipherable words and commands. The emergency lights glowed in an eerie yellow chain, refracted along the walls. Peter's shirt, now cold and heavy with water, clung uncomfortably to his skin but he was still sweating, his body hot and shaky with adrenaline. They reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner to find a crowd of SWAT officers standing near the entrance to the vault. Peter’s breath caught in his chest as his eyes fell on the motionless figure lying just beyond them.

The officers moved out of Peter’s way as he rushed forward. Neal was lying face down like a dropped marionette, his right arm stretched out in front of him, fingers curled and limp. He was bleeding from a head wound Peter couldn't yet see, his collar and the back of his shirt dark with blood, hair nauseatingly slick. Peter's hands hovered momentarily before he reached out, checking Neal’s pulse and breathing; neither were as strong as they should be. With the help of the other officers, they carefully rolled Neal onto his back, keeping his head and neck as straight as possible.

“We found him like this,” an officer said as he stepped back. “Gunmen were nowhere in sight.”

“Neal?” Peter ran his knuckles across Neal’s sternum but got no response. He could see more blood on Neal’s temple now, running in a thick line down to his jaw. His face was ashen. “Where the hell is EMT?” Peter said, hoping he sounded more in control than he felt.

Jones wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. “They’re outside waiting for the building to be cleared.” 

“See if they’ll come in anyway,” Peter said and Jones took off, his footsteps booming down the hall.

Peter tried again to rouse Neal, alternating between squeezing his hand and rubbing his knuckles across his chest. After a long moment, Neal finally stirred, eyes fluttering. “Neal? That’s it, c’mon, c’mon.” 

Neal frowned, his fingers flexing weakly in Peter’s hold. Diana caught his head just before he moved. “Neal? Hey, it’s all right. Just try and stay still, okay?” she said, but it didn't seem like Neal could hear her, his body pliant, eyes failing to open.

“How long since the takedown?” 

Diana checked her watch. “Ten minutes, give or take.”

Peter nodded, terrified; Neal must have been unconscious for at least that long. He was clearly struggling to surface, his breathing slow and shallow. Peter tapped his face. “Neal? Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

There were footsteps in the corridor behind them and a second later a police officer emerged. "Medics are right behind me," he said. "Agent Jones is bringing them in now."

Peter dipped his head in acknowledgment, letting out a breath of relief. But it was short lived; Neal's stomach heaved and they barely got him onto his side before he vomited. It was only fluid that Neal coughed up, spit and stomach acid, but it made Peter's throat tight with fear.  Someone handed Peter a tissue and he wiped Neal’s mouth and chin clean.

Peter sat back on his heels, rubbing small circles over the back of Neal's hand with his thumb, hoping that at least he knew he wasn't alone.

 

*

 

An hour after they arrived at the hospital, a triage nurse handed Peter a plastic bag containing Neal’s personal belongings. His ruined clothes, cut from his body, had already been taken away as evidence. Peter had washed Neal's blood from his hands and wrists, but the cuffs of his shirtsleeves and the knees of his pants were stiff with it, the sight jarring him every time he glanced down.

The waiting area he had been directed to was unbearably warm and stagnant, the chaos of the ER beyond reduced to a thrumming white noise. Neal had regained consciousness in the ambulance, but he had been far from lucid, unable to answer even straightforward questions; he couldn’t say what year it was or which president was currently in office, his voice hesitant and muffled by the oxygen mask. The small comfort was that he had recognised Peter, occasionally asking for him, looking for reassurance. Peter had held Neal's hand in both of his own, breaking contact only to let the EMT move around them. From where he sat, Peter could just glimpse the bay where Neal was being treated, flashes of colour and movement but nothing more. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look away.

He was still numbly holding onto Neal's things, unsure what he was supposed to do with them. Carefully, he tipped the contents of the bag out onto the table, over the coffee-ringed magazines and pamphlets. There wasn’t much: Neal’s keys, his wallet, a lighter, a silver tiepin and a pair of glinting cufflinks. After a moment’s hesitation, Peter reached out and opened the wallet; he told himself it was to check everything was there, but really it gave him something to do with his hands, something to occupy his mind.  He wasn’t surprised when he found four credit cards, thankfully all in Neal’s name, and a couple of driver's licenses that were not. There was a hotel key card, a grocery receipt, a ticket stub from a club from the previous weekend and a crumpled twenty in the fold.  Just as Peter was about to close the wallet and slide it back into the bag, the worn paper corner of something caught his eye, tucked into a pocket he wouldn’t have otherwise noticed.

It was Polaroid of Kate and Neal.

Kate, who was holding the camera, looked directly into the lens, but Neal’s adoring gaze was focused entirely on her, his nose just touching her cheek. They were probably not much older than twenty or twenty-one and although Peter couldn’t tell where it was taken, it looked sunny and bright, the image bleached and slightly overexposed. A lump formed in his throat and he slipped the photo back into the fold of the wallet, smoothing it over so as to avoid crumpling it further.

Hughes arrived two hours later and handed Peter his and Neal’s IDs. “Crime Scene found them hidden behind a display stand,” he said, squeezing Peter’s shoulder briefly.

After four hours, Elizabeth rushed through the emergency room doors having come straight from the airport after cutting a business trip short. Her eye make up was slightly smudged and Peter struggled to maintain his composure as she embraced him tightly.

 

*

 

It was late by the time they were finally allowed in to see Neal, the sun having long since set, taking the heat with it.

The glass-walled room in the Intensive Care Unit was cool and calm and nothing like the machine-filled nightmare Peter had imagined when they were told that was where Neal was being admitted. The gunmen had fractured Neal’s skull and left him for dead; it was all Peter had been able to think about since the doctor had walked away down the corridor and Elizabeth gently pulled him towards the elevator. It sickened him, filled his chest with the overwhelming desire for revenge, torrid and unfamiliar.

The doctors had reassured them that there was no internal bleeding or permanent damage and the fracture would heal unaided, but the severity of his concussion meant Neal would be in the hospital for a few days at least. He would be groggy, agitated, confused; it was normal, they said, but that didn’t make Peter feel any better.

Neal was asleep on his side, his breathing deep and even. An IV line dripped steadily into his arm and the monitor above the bed held a set of stable looking numbers. The oxygen mask he'd been wearing in the ER was gone and there was a small plastic bowl lying untouched next to his hand. He looked startlingly young, openly vulnerable in a distinctly un-Neal-like way. An attempt had been made to clean him up and most of the blood had been washed from his hair. A row of butterfly stitches ran along his temple and a deep bruise was blossoming across his jaw line, but there was at least a little colour to his face now; to Peter’s mind the difference was like night and day. He touched Neal's arm as he sat down in the chair next to the bed. 

Neal stirred, squinting as he looked across at Peter. It was obvious he wasn't focusing well, his gaze wavering drunkenly as though he was trying to pinpoint a moving object. He offered Peter a weak smile as recognition finally sparked in his eyes. “Hey.” 

"Hey," Peter smiled back, relief flooding over him. "How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Neal sighed. He reached up to touch his face but stopped himself. “I don’t – do you know what happened?” His speech was slightly sluggish, reminding Peter of the effect Adler’s drugs had on him all those months ago. Peter looked at Elizabeth, unsure about what to tell Neal while he was in this state. She shook her head imperceptibly.

“You had an accident,” Peter said. “Hit your head. But you’re going to be absolutely fine, you don't need to worry about anything.” He gently pressed a hand to Neal's forehead, checking a non-existent fever, and used it as an excuse to sweep his hair back from his face. "You feeling sick?" Peter asked, nudging the bowl that was now in danger of falling off the side of the bed back, closer to Neal's body. 

Neal nodded, eyes falling closed.

"Yeah, I'll bet," Peter said softly. "It'll pass soon, I'm sure."

“Do you need anything, sweetie?” Elizabeth asked from where she was perched on the end of the bed. 

Neal was quiet for a moment and Peter thought the question had gone past him, when he asked, “Could you get me a soda?”

El looked slightly surprised by the simple, uncharacteristic request, but smiled indulgently. “Of course. I’ll go check with the nurses to see if you can have anything.” She gave his toes a quick squeeze through the blankets and slipped out of the room.

“My head is killing me,” Neal said, as though answering an unasked question. His eyes were still closed, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "What happened?"

Peter hesitated, feeling completely disarmed by Neal's restive state. He repeated his earlier reassurances, but Neal seemed too far gone to really comprehend anything. "You'll feel better in the morning," Peter said, hoping it was true.

As Neal slept, Peter tried to make sense of the past few hours; somehow everything felt remote and hazy now, as though transcribed to him by an outside observer. Reports filtering in from the scene suggested that Neal had cracked the vault using the gunmen’s substandard equipment, but whether he was attacked when SWAT moved in, or before, no one yet knew. The two remaining gunmen had been apprehended with the money in one of the old sewer tunnels that ran underneath the bank - one that just happened to be a dead end.

Peter wondered how someone capable of such destruction could have so much innate altruism lying just under the surface of his skin. He wondered how he would continue to investigate the stolen art now, knowing that Neal had saved his life and almost lost his own in the process. How would he look Neal in the eye and thank him while the manifest remained at his fingertips? Peter could feel his identity twisting, reforming into a different version of the original. He and Neal were tangled up in each other’s lives now, and what had seemed so simple before, so straightforward, was anything but. There were grey areas where previously there had been only blinding light, shadows that had that crept in without him realising, distorting the shape of everything. He wanted Neal to go straight, to work within the law, but more than anything he wanted him  _safe_.

It could only be a matter of time before something had to give.

 

 

 

* 

_End._


End file.
